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Beach Street Block Party

After four alarms are sedated by my unconscious self, the midday sun beams onto my skin, blinding my eyes and resurrecting me back… Back to the Beach Street Block Party.

Note: the recollection of my day weaves through from artist to artist, embracing the local gems, I can only attempt to do the day justice.

  • The Bad Time Boys are kicking off to start the day. The soft, mysterious vocals ride the bass through each song, rolling in perfect harmony with the subtle 80s techno drum loop.
  • Voodoo Youth hail the crowd with the authenticity like no other. They’ve got that edginess that throbs and pulsates through the veins of the music. The slick fusion of garage and surf rock grasp the audience in an unbreakable moment (what just happened?)
  • NTL Landmarks magnetic cover of the Holy Father’s (Father John Misty) Hollywood Forever Cemetery compels me to run out from the toilet and smash into an invisible brick wall (shouts out to Red Boy Apparel). The interplay of each instrument resembles the perfectly assembled words of a poem.
  • Capital Coast spills swag all over the stage, sliced and diced with reggae and splashes of English blood that splatters the audience. Fiercely roaming off the stage, lead vocalist Nick Hutt thrashes his body around the crowd. Dancing amongst strangers, we twirl and curl around the singer.
  • Marques are set up in the beer garden selling band merch from No-Fi Records and handmade local designer Bonnie Lee Tipper’s Chinchen St. The stalls are setup as if it’s a living room, that’s if your living room has a grassy floor, a manmade ciggie hole and a damn good view of some local music.
  • William John Jr. is hungover and hungry. But you can’t tell from the ensemble of musical madness bumping against the brain. Each sound entwines and ravels into a psychedelic blues tapestry. Blues is way cool.
  • Foemen would be the soundtrack to an excellent dream of mine. I think Richard Brautigan sums it up perfectly for me to say, “my God, ma’am, you’re so pretty I’d walk ten miles barefooted on a freezing morning to stand in your shit.”
  • The Treehouse Children exchange the afternoon sun for a chillingly wild beat. I’m not sure why but the instruments, they implant a frenzy. Slowly but surely the chaos is unleashed, then embraced.
  • The Owls effortlessly divide themselves from the gang. Their new songs rain in devoted armies of fans.  Fluttering frantically I start chanting and  heckling the band. I find myself in the midst of an idiosyncratic dance. It’s that god dam tambourine… yet again.
  • I inhale this cigarette too slow because I hear the Raave Tapes crowd muffling and scuffling for air inside. Ideally I would have crowd surfed the raavers to get to the back. Instead I choose the nadir of despair. This was my first (and probably not last) of crawling through a Raave Tapes gig.
  • The Zilzies and Split Feed sing to my trampled soul from afar. A fruitful wave of music washes over and heals me. Hallelujah!
  • dave has the room stacked up like a game of jenga. As always I fear for my life when I enter the realm of dave. But by the end I have become the one I’ve feared.
  • Pals, the humble punks will bring you to your knees and make you weep. Make you feel the texture in music, make you spill your drink. Pals is the perfect ending you want in a book, so “get the fuck up it”.

Woven with beer, smoke and inspiration, I twist, duck and spin out the doors. I blow a kiss goodbye to the sublime sticky crowd. BG OUT

 




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